


beat the heat

by caramelchameleon



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelchameleon/pseuds/caramelchameleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the kids steal a moment to have fun</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat the heat

The heat is atrocious. 

Maxwell is willing to entertain the possibility that it could be slightly more bearable, were he not wearing a three-piece black suit, but he ultimately rejects the notion. The suit represents stability, culture, civilization… a slightly absurd thought, but he’s sure he’d have gone mad long ago, if he were less impeccably dressed. Therefore, for the sake of his peace of mind, he stubbornly keeps to his suit and instead stretches out in whatever shade he can find. Let the pawns do their daily futile tasks, if they can stand running around in this weather. He’ll emerge from camp to do his share once evening approaches and the heat isn’t so oppressive. 

Speaking of running around - he can’t see the culprits from his current position, but he can hear two pairs of feet pounding up. The footsteps are too light to belong to anyone but the children, which is why he isn’t getting nervous about the arachnid snarling and the ethereal, ghostly sounds mixed in with the more typical noises of excitement and play. Maxwell isn’t inclined to nap through all that racket, and he will shortly be too hungry to continue without a snack in any case, so he sits up, stretching his tired old bones carefully. 

A splash makes him look around instinctively for smoldering fire, or perhaps for Willow behaving badly, but everything in camp is in order. The vile little spider is giggling hoarsely and dancing away from a fresh puddle on the ground. Even Wendy has the faintest of smiles on her face as she readies another water balloon, and her dearly departed sister is gracefully swooping and weaving around the combatants, all but translucent in the strong sunlight.

Maxwell arranges himself into a more comfortable sitting position and looks around surreptitiously for an adult, as another balloon splatters over the neat row of storage chests. Those three aren’t exactly normal children, and can generally be trusted to take care of themselves - had done just that, before rose-scented pathways opened to bring them all together - but those little sacks of melted ice are for fire suppression, which is a serious matter. Maxwell doesn’t particularly want to set himself up as, ugh, a responsible authority, but he also doesn’t want camp to burn down later because the children used up the communal supply of water for a frivolous game.

The dilemma of whether or not to step in is resolved, quite unequivocally, by the arrival of a balloon squarely to the chest.

He gasps and splutters indignantly as a dark stain spreads over his suit. There’s blood in those “balloons,” no matter how well they’re cleaned out after being taken from the mosquitoes, and knowing his luck a stain is inevitable. These clothes are expensive, damnit - he shoots a glare at the trembling culprit, who is staring back with eight wide eyes. Disgusting creature. Wendy simply looks solemn, but Abigail, so much as he can read an expression in her ghostly eyes, is wholly unrepentant.

“What, exactly, is the meaning of this?” Maxwell asks, frigidly, with as much dignity as he can muster while still drenched. “You’re wasting valuable supplies on playtime?”

Webber’s grip tightens, and the balloon in their claws bursts, water dripping to the ground. The little monster doesn’t say anything in its own defense, just looks stricken and upset.

“It’s an effective tactic for keeping cool,” Wendy says, morose as ever. Maxwell feels a faint little twinge of regret; her smiles don’t come easily, and the brief expression he caught on her face is gone as if it never was. “And they’re our supplies to waste. Abigail and I caught the mosquitoes.” Abigail pulses for a moment with a soft, indignant pink light, nodding confirmation.

“We mined a bunch of ice last winter,” Webber offers, fidgeting restlessly with the bracelet on its hairy wrist. “There’s a lot. We won’t run out. And we’re really sorry about hitting you, Mr. Maxwell.”

Maxwell grouses and grumbles to himself, wiping at the wet patch on his jacket, but he has to admit that Wendy's right, it does feel better than the oppressive heat. There will be more mosquitoes, and more ice. Several of the more bleeding-heart inhabitants of this place are always fretting over the kids and their lost childhoods, or some such… and, well, Maxwell can’t bring himself to ruin their hastily-snatched opportunities for fun any more than he already has.

He settles for a gruff “Be more careful in the future,” and pauses for a moment to consider. “How many of those do you have, anyhow?”

“Five more remain,” Wendy says. Maxwell holds out a gloved hand and she passes one over obligingly. Maxwell hefts it, then gives the balloon a gentle overhand toss to Webber, who ducks his head and lets the water drench him without argument. When they raise their head again it’s with a tentative, toothy smile, water dripping off their fur.

“You know, once you’re done here, we could pay a little visit to WX-78,” Maxwell says.

“That’d be mean!” Webber says, but his milky-white eyes are bright with mischief.

“I believe they’re out gathering beefalo manure today.” The faint smile is back on Wendy’s face, curling up just slightly at the edges. Abigail bobs in midair, in an especially emphatic nod. 

“Then they’ll probably appreciate a break from those hairy brutes,” Maxwell says, keeping his face carefully impassive as Webber sidles up behind Wendy, balloon in hand. Abigail, too, appears to be holding back with an effort, hollow eyes squinting into a smile. Thus unopposed, Webber dunks his weapon squarely on the top of Wendy’s head. She huffs a little sigh - exasperation or just relief from the heat, Maxwell can’t tell - and pulls the omnipresent flower out of her hair to pat the worst of the water off the delicate petals. 

“There! Now everyone’s wet,” Webber declares, legs waving. “Let’s go!” 

Wendy finishes tucking her flower safely back into her hair, and Webber grabs her hand - the one with the matching little silk friendship bracelet, how saccharine. To Maxwell's surprise, her other small hand finds its way quite naturally to his gloved one. Wendy's grip isn't strong, but Maxwell lets her tug him along. Abigail floats serenely into the procession at his other side. It's... nice.


End file.
